


Pneuma

by ElGato



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DC Extended Universe, DCU, Justice League (2017), Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: Gen, Modern Era, Police Procedural, Post-Wonder Woman 1984 (2020), Sequel, Steve lives...but not in the way you think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElGato/pseuds/ElGato
Summary: A man's near death in Gotham leads to an investigation that starts to spread its tentacles towards the Justice League, and crack open a wrinkle in the universe.
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman) & Steve Trevor, past Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a story whirling and forming since the original movie came out. It was original supposed be a part of my Great War series, a series of non-movie compliant Wonder Woman fics written shortly before the movie came out.
> 
> After 1984 I was able solidify what I wanted to do with this and even take in a few characters and pieces introduced into the DCEU since the first Wonder Woman movie. So this is in effect a sequel to Wonder Woman 1984 and Justice League.
> 
> The title comes from the concept of 'soul' in Greek Stoicism. Also the title of a Tool song, a band whose influence on this story will probably become clear eventually.
> 
> Also trigger warning for this story: There is mention of suicide, and attempted suicide. Usually I don't put these types of warnings here because I assume most people who read my work (and read the M rating) are reasonable adults, but since it's pretty heavily discussed in the first few chapters I want to bring this to people's attention in case they really want to avoid the topic.

_ Gotham, 2018 _

The Astor Hotel was a diamond of old Gotham nestled along the downtown east-side. On this early winter night, guests were entering the warmly lit marble lobby, wearing long coats and jackets against the cold rain outside.

Nothing was amiss along this dull drone for Richard, the concierge at the desk at the time. He had just finished checking in yet another faceless businessman when he noticed a commotion outside the lobby doors of the hotel.

When he noticed the doorman rushing over to a crowd that was slowly growing, Richard thought it best to go out and investigate himself. He asked his co-worker to cover for him in a hurried breath, rounding the desk and leaving outside into the downtown streets through the glass doors.

The doorman, who was in the back of the crowd, turned to Richard with an ashen face. “Someone jumped,” was all he said. Richard started shouting over the crowd of bystanders, shoving his way through until he came upon the body on the sidewalk cement.

It was a man, wearing a grey pullover and boxer shorts, blood seeping heavily from his head.

He was breathing.

Richard shoved his way back out through the crowd and scrambled back into the hotel to call 9-1-1.

* * *

A little less than an hour later, Detective Renee Montoya was nearing the scene in her black squad car. Having been a detective for Gotham’s Police for nearly a decade, she could safely say she had seen everything the criminal underworld had to throw at the city. Exposing herself to murder and mayhem was almost a part of her daily routine. It came as a surprise to her that this call didn’t involve a dead body. It sounded like a traditional attempted suicide. Still, she was called on the scene for a cursory investigation.

As she turned on 12th Avenue, she could spot the flashing blue and red of GCPD police cars against the darkness, and a smattering of uniformed officers with civilians lingering around the Astor Hotel entrance.

Montoya pulled behind another squad car and turned off the engine, eyes searching for the responding officer amongst the crowd. Officer McCann, a mid-level night beat officer, glanced up from taking a statement and noticed her. Immediately he waved her over, gesturing that he wanted to speak with her.

She opened her car door and approached the officer. “Officer McCann,” she called over the drone of bystanders and radios chattering. “I got a call about a possible suicide?”

The officer nodded, “A man, late-twenties to mid-thirties, seemed to have jumped up from that fifth story hotel room.” The officer pointed upwards along the limestone exterior of the hotel, at the rows of windows. All of them seemed to be closed, except one, where she could clearly see the off-white drapes flapping in the wind.

“He survived the fall,” the officer continued. “He’s been taken to St. Christopher’s on Rockford and 10th. Couldn’t tell you anything more about his status.”

“Do we know anything about the guy?” asked Montoya.

“Officer Gomez is inside right now. He might know more.”

“Any reason I was asked off the homicide beat to look into this?”

There was a pause and Officer McCann lowered his brows as if he expected the notoriously no-nonsense detective to ask this very question.

“Well...this…” Officer McCann pointed to the pavement, where the pool of the man’s blood still remained. Montoya bent down to get a closer look. Sprinkled all around the pavement were small shards of glass.

“Any chance this was here before?”

Officer McCann shrugged, but answered, “My gut says no. Or it would be a hell of a coincidence.”

That was all Montoya needed to look further herself. Broken glass in a suicide-by-jumping was odd enough for her to walk inside the hotel. She first met with a man named Richard, the concierge worker who called the authorities over the matter. After a brief statement from the man, he directed her to the hotel room the victim was staying in that evening.

A few officers were inside already, one taking photos, and Officer Gomez was standing there observing the officers inspecting the area.

“Officer Gomez, McCann says you might have more for me about our victim.”

Officer Gomez nodded and flipped open a simple black wallet, showing the first glimpse Montoya had of the victim. He was a man who was a weary and aged thirty, bright blue eyes made brighter by the haunted shadow around them. His dirty blond hair was disheveled showing the barest of hints of a widow’s peak. His face was equally disheveled, sporting a prickly and unkempt stubble. He didn’t exactly fit the traditional appearance of the more sharply dressed Astor Hotel guests.

“Stephen H. Trevor. Aged thirty-three,” Gomez said. “ID is military. Reception said he checked in earlier in the evening. He was also observed drinking cocktails with some men at the hotel bar.”

Montoya’s ears perked up at that, “Any idea who those men were?”

The officer shook his head, “You don’t have to be a guest to use the bar. Either way, the men he was drinking with were seen leaving well before he returned to his room, based on statements.”

Montoya stepped through the hotel room to the window. She saw the edges of glass shards still sticking to the side of the window pane, and she leaned forward into the drizzly night air, taking a look at all the cars and lights down below. It was high up, not an easy jump. One would not be afraid of heights to understand falling from this room could do some serious damage.

The street below was a typically busy Gotham street, perhaps made more busy by citizens enjoying the night-life. Bars, restaurants, lounges, and concert halls littered the street. It wasn’t exactly a quiet place to go end your life.

“Did anyone see him by the window before he jumped?” she asked Officer Gomez.

“No one’s reported seeing him until he landed as far as we know.”

“Have you ever heard of a jumper just hurling themselves?”

Officer Gomez frowned a bit, staring ponderously at his superior officer, “What do you mean?”

Montoya pointed to the open window.

“Suicide by jumping...there’s usually a moment, a pause where they double think, someone in a street this bustling would’ve seen him hanging out on the ledge or by that window. He was half-dressed. I have yet to hear of someone throwing themselves through a glass pane on a suicidal whim that abruptly.”

“So you suspect foul play?”

“Well only he would know now, wouldn’t he.” She murmured more to herself. But the subject, this Stephen Trevor, would likely not recover for a few days. And then, given the head injury, who knew what his cognitive state would be. Her eyes traveled along the hotel room, looking for anything out of place. Immediately she noticed the desk lamp by the window on the floor. Perhaps something fishy, or just the result of the wind or Stephen Trevor jumping.

His bag was by the lounge table, a small black duffle bag with not a lot in terms of clothing or any other traveling amenities. On the table was a glass, one used for whiskey or mixed drinks, it’s contents empty except for melting ice. Beyond the lamp, nothing immediately seemed odd.

Moving into the bed area, on the bedside table were a small pile of a variety of newspapers, but they all had one thing in common.

“This guy seems to have a thing for that Wonder Woman broad, it looks like,” Montoya remarked sardonically, rifling through the papers. All seemed to have come from today; detailing Wonder Woman’s recent exploits rescuing a sinking refugee boat.

“I mean, I don’t blame the guy,” Officer Gomez said trying to withhold a smile at that revelation about their victim.

Montoya hummed noncommittally until she lifted the last newspaper. It was an art magazine, flipped over to the leading article about Amazon depictions in ancient art authored by a woman named Dr. Barbara Ann Minerva.

It was hard to miss the author’s name on the article because it was viciously circled in deep ball point ink. The name possibly was a clue. 

She asked the scouring officers to bag up the evidence, the lamp, glass, and papers included, prepared to issue her own paperwork to the brass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should mention because of the topics explored in this story this opening scene is heavily inspired by the dramatization in the documentary "Wormwood". If you've seen it, you'll recognize it. If you haven't, I suggest watching it at some point if you are into government conspiracies on mind control.


	2. Chapter 2

The following day, Montoya discovered that Barbara Minerva was a ferry’s ride away from Gotham, in Metropolis, currently on contract with Lex Luthor’s grants to the Metropolis Museum. It was a stretch to assume Barbara Minerva would have any idea as to why some guy in Gotham would want to kill himself...or have any involvement in making it seem that way, but a few cursory questions may reveal more about this Stephen Trevor, and what went through his head last night.

The man, at the very least, seemed to have an interest in her.

The museum offices wasted no time in directing her towards Barbara Minerva as soon as Montoya flashed her badge. Dr. Minerva was in her officer standing before her cluttered desk, seeming to sort through a mess of papers. The woman was older, possibly in her sixties, her greying hair still holding onto its strawberry blond. The woman wore glasses far too big for her face, but thankfully didn’t magnify her hazel eyes that much.

Barbara Minerva wasn’t nearly as welcoming to the sight of her badge as the others in the museum. In fact, if Montoya didn’t know any better, the cautiousness in which Dr. Minerva began eyeing her was the mark of someone who at least felt guilty about something.

“Dr. Minerva, I’m Detective Montoya, of the Gotham City Police,” she held out her hand.

Dr. Minerva gave a weak “oh”, and returned the handshake. “Is...is there something wrong, Detective?”

Montoya cleared her throat, “Well, actually there was an incident in Gotham last night. A man supposedly tried to kill himself. Your name showed up in a search, and we wanted to know if you knew anything more.”

The older woman looked legitimately shocked at this, her wariness dissolving as her eyes drew wide behind her overly large glasses. “I’m...I’m sorry I do not know anyone in Gotham.”

“He was found staying at a hotel. A man by the name of Stephen Trevor. Does that ring a bell?”

“I wish I could help,” Dr. Minerva said softly. “But I’m not overly familiar with a man of that name.”

“None, whatsoever?”

Barbara shrugged. “I’m fairly certain. I met a 'Steve' once but I don’t know what his last name was.”

Montoya rifled through her notebook and pulled up a photo copy of Stephen Trevor’s picture from his license. “Does he look like this?” She watched as Barbara’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses at the picture, and to her disdain she shook her head.

“I mean there could be a few small similarities, I guess. But the guy I remember is from way back in the 80’s. He would have to be my age or older now. Much older than this guy.”

Dr. Minerva’s eyes fell on the picture again, as if reaching through her memory to match the face to the Steve she knew. She shook her head with finality.

“And even if it was the same guy, I couldn’t tell you much beyond that. I only met him once or twice through a...co-worker. Diana Prince was her name. May I ask how my name came up?”

Montoya put the picture back into her notebook and answered flatly, “Your name was on an article in a magazine found at the victim’s hotel. He had your name in particular circled. Might be interested in your work?”

“Maybe,” Dr. Minerva said in a distant voice. “I’m...not in any danger am I?”

Detective Montoya was about to give the easy answer. That no, she had no reason to worry about a man who might have tried to commit suicide. But something caused her to pause from saying it outright. A man documenting a name of a person who published papers is more than likely a benign act. But so long as Montoya did not know who Stephen Trevor was, or who Dr. Minerva was for that matter, she could only guess.

“There’s no evidence to suggest you are in danger at all. You can relax, Doctor,” Montoya paused again and eyed the woman. “Unless there’s something you need to get off your chest. My being here seems to have caused some nerves.”

“Oh, ha, yeah,” Dr. Minerva weakly laughed. “It’s like white-coat syndrome with doctors, you know. I just get nervous talking to cops in general.”

Montoya gave her a simple nod before leaving the woman to continue her work.

As soon as she slammed the door shut to her car, Montoya pulled open her notebook and underlined Barbara Minerva’s name. There was nothing tying her to this Stephen Trevor so far beyond her article in his hotel, but Montoya found something...off about her. She would at least keep this name in mind in case it came up again. But for now, the interview garnered nothing onto the events of last night.

On the drive back to the port to take the ferry back to Gotham, a call came in from Commissioner Gordan.

“Of course…” Montoya sighed to herself before pressing the answer button. “Montoya here.”

“Detective Montoya, I got word from Gomez that you are currently in Metropolis. Is there any reason why you are crossing jurisdictions?”

For most, the questioning tone had a scolding edge to it, but Renee Montoya knew that the biggest defense against Commissioner Gordan was any thorough attempt to solve violent crime.

“Looking into a possible lead about our Astor Hotel victim last night, Commissioner,” she answered casually.

“The suicide?”

“That’s what I’m looking into. Was speaking to an archeologist here whose name showed up at the hotel room. Trying to see if it's possibly something more than what it looks like.”

“Anything of note?”

“She name-dropped someone by the name of ‘Diana Prince’, but it’s more than likely not worth following up here.”

“Dead end?”

“Looks like it,” Montoya sighed.

“Well, for now get back to Gotham and make your way over to the pier district. Some gangsters got themselves into a shootout.”

“Roger that, Commissioner.”

* * *

What Renee Montoya didn’t know was that just uttering the name ‘Diana Prince’ over her radio set out a wave. The waves of information pinged inside Victor Stone’s head, alerting his cybernetic half that someone was on the lookout for one of his teammates. A member of the Justice League. A worry that they would connect ‘Diana Prince’ the beautiful, but otherwise completely normal curator of the Louvre, to Wonder Woman, superheroine extraordinaire.

Victor was all the way in Detroit, where his mom used to live, hiding in his apartment playing video games when the alert went off.

Ever since the League formed he equipped himself with such surveillance to help the members keep their privacy. He knew all of them could handle out maneuvering a little snooping.

But this was Diana, and it may be a little misogynistic of the rest of the male members, but they were immensely protective of their sole female member. Nevermind that she could probably kill them all without blinking if she wanted to, but that hardly mattered to Victor.

What mattered to him was that one of the first people to treat him as a human could have the law breathing down her neck soon.

Immediately he paused his game, and switched on his communicator with his cyberkinesis.

"Batman, come in Batman," he spoke through his channels. "Batman, you there?"

He heard the ping inside his head alerting him that communication lines were opened. "Batman here, what is the problem Victor."

"Batman, I just heard a frequency from one of GCPDs radio transmissions. They mentioned Diana."

In the most Batman voice possible, stripped of any emotion that would indicate his feelings on the matter, he asked, "What did they mention her in reference to?"

"I-I-I don't know," Victor stuttered, suddenly feeling a creeping sense of urgency. One he couldn't act immediately on being a half-robot all the way in Detroit. "I just heard them mention her name, don't know what it's for. But..."

"Diana's in Paris," Batman replied. "What possible reason could GCPD want her for?"

"I can think of...one," Victor replied nervously. Diana Prince's involvement at the Hall of Justice namely.

There was a heavy pause, Victor’s eyes watching the speaker icons on his TV screen flicker frantically, his online friends probably trying to get him to respond, confused as to why his avatar has not moved or bothered to get out of gun fire for the past several moments.

“It’s fine Victor,” Batman said finally. “I’ll keep an eye on the GCPD. Batman out.”

After the signal switched off in his head, Victor became increasingly aware of the silence in his room, his thumb hovering over the “Pause” button on his controller. He feared going back into the game, half his mind distracted trying to listen to any more signals that would indicate why Gotham Police were so interested in Diana. If they were at all.

Victor told himself that Batman could handle the GCPD, and for now that was enough for him to unpause his game and join his online friends’ avatars.


	3. Chapter 3

In the days following her excursion to Metropolis, Detective Montoya had to put the Stephen Trevor case to the side for a while after a mass murder of some minor gangsters, most likely at the hands of the Falcone crime family. It required much of GCPD’s efforts to process and investigate, though no one would be surprised if they could find no solid proof that the Falcones did call for the massacre.

Montoya was in her office, reviewing statements of the pier district mass murders when a junior officer knocked on her door.

“Detective Montoya, the hospital called. Your guy has woken up.”

Suddenly, the fretting over paperwork dissipated, and she used this as an excuse to leave her office.

At St. Christopher’s Hospital, she was directed towards a Dr. Hoffman, who seemed hesitant to let even an officer of the law in to see his patient. He clearly didn't expect anyone from GCPD to follow up on the patient so soon. Still, after some cajoling, he led her down the wing where Stephen Trevor was being held.

“I’m not sure how helpful he will be,” he said. “We have yet to evaluate the full extent of any possible brain damage. But the superficial head trauma has been sufficiently treated.”

“Really, just need to know one or two questions.”

“Well, let’s go in and say hello,” Dr. Hoffman said as his hand turned the handle of the door.

Stephen Trevor was laying in the hospital bed, the beeping sound of his vitals being registered, and the soft hush of air being sent through his nasal cannula the only sounds in the room. His blue eyes were open and he appeared awake, but his focus was entirely on the television on mute, probably turned to some news channel by default. He made no move when they entered and approached the bed.

“Good morning. I’m Dr. Hoffman. How are you today?”

Montoya just stood by and observed for the moment, but Trevor did not answer Dr. Hoffman. He barely acknowledged his presence, eyes empty.

“How ARE you today?” Dr. Hoffman repeated more slowly. No answer again. Trevor seemed almost catatonic.

“Look, son. You’re in a safe place. We want to help in any way we can. But you have to talk to us. We can’t help you otherwise.”

Montoya followed Trevor’s gaze to the television, where a news panel was boringly discussing the concept of metahumans, images of the Red Streak, Wonder Woman, and Aquaman appearing on screen.

“What’s happened? Tell us everything,” Dr. Hoffman prodded gently again.

Detective Montoya turned her gaze back to Trevor as the hissing of the breathing machine became harsher and slower, as he was taking heavy straining breaths.

And then suddenly, the life seemed to flick on in Trevor’s blue eyes as he sat up in the bed.

“Alright then,” he rasped. At that Montoya subconsciously clicked her pen, ready to write down his statement.

“Take this as you will…”

Trevor took a deep breath, as if preparing to expel all the secrets of what happened the other night. And when he opened his mouth, secrets did spill…

He spoke rapidly, frantically, as if in a trance. He was babbling a stream of consciousness at first listen.

“MK Ultra, Edgewood, Midnight Climax, Fort Detrick, holed up in a barebones place, with a midget, until the walls split open revealing to me a Promethea, a goddess, scratched with cocaine chalk and shoelaces. And she revealed to me a crack open in the sky. Right up in my face sweating face.”

“And Area 51 is housing otherworldly technology found in the area. I don’t know the details, but I’m sure it’s from another dimension. I remember the agents gave me Sara Lee donuts and the next thing I knew I was in the middle of the desert finding my way back. I don’t know what else they gave me, but they gave me a whole lotta fuckin’ shit. Shit that made you feel things, like you had to deliver a message. I mean that’s what I thought the stars said.”

“They call them New Gods, as opposed to old, I know. Ancient Aliens shit. Beings from another planet with advanced technology. Whatever they are, they don’t seem like E-motherfuckin’-T. More H.R. Giger meets Jack Kirby, if ya know what I mean. There’s a piece in Yellowstone. All over the National Parks. Imagine stumbling upon an outer-dimensional thing in Eddie Bauer boots.”

“Aside from the color cops, I know those names, those gods I think. One of those gods is Houdini, has a fuckin’ pun for a name, married to a UFC Champion named Barda. One of them thinks he’s the constellation. God’s blue by the way. Fully with a blue dick.”

“Blue looked right through me, through his blank dark circled eyes and he told me he knew what it means, to be seeing everything around like me. To see shit don't think I can even understand...”

It was then that Montoya felt that Trevor was actually seeing her, not in whatever mess was going on in his head. The man's blue eyes were wild, almost in fury and in desperation as he leaned closer towards her almost reaching out

“Y-you believe me don’t you? Please believe what I said, because the universe ain't small, and it’s not all in my head.”

When Montoya returned to her car she found she missed a call from the Gotham Crime Lab. She quickly dialed the technician hoping at least they could be of some help, especially when the victim was in a mania.

“Detective Montoya…” the lab technician Dr. Soszynski drawled over the other line. “Any luck with our victim?”

Montoya laughed ruefully in her throat. “Unfortunately no. The hospital is taking another look at the extent of brain damage before letting him interview again. Either he was an incoherent mess beforehand or that fall really did more damage than expected. You should’ve been there Mike. It was like listening to an internet conspiracy post.”

“Well, I don’t know what this could mean, but we got some lab results back that might be interested in.”

Dr. Soszynski didn’t even wait for a response. “That whiskey glass you gathered from the hotel room had traces of  lysergic acid diethylamide. LSD.”

Montoya’s brows rose at that. That...was an interesting find.

“So…” she began, speaking more to herself. “So, what? He has a bad trip and barrels through a fifth story window?”

“I don’t know, just reporting the results. But if you’re asking my opinion it’s not impossible. Rare for someone to try to kill themselves over a trip, but not impossible.”

Not impossible. Montoya huffed in her chest as she quietly agreed with Soszynski's opinion. Perhaps she was chasing a ghost with this Stephen Trevor case, and the man made a crucially brain melting mistake.

* * *

As an unspoken truth between him and Commissioner Gordon, Batman made it personal policy not to spy on GCPD antics unless that signal blazoned the sky. After that, crime was involved and therefore he used any and all resources he could potentially hack into.

No Batsignal shone in the night sky, and yet Batman had set about to break this unspoken trust.

So far he could not find much into what Victor could be discussing. There were numerous reports about the Falcone hit job on the piers that occurred around the time Cyborg reported hearing the radio signals, but for certain Diana would not ever be on the police radar for that.

He did find the beginnings of a report by Detective Renee Montoya from a day prior, but whatever Montoya was looking into, she smartly hadn’t filed much into the GCPD database yet. But he did find statements from other, less security wary officers.

It was there he found the first possible connection to Diana. A familiar name that shocked even him.

Detective Montoya was looking into a “Stephen Trevor”. The name and Victor’s warning about Diana could not be coincidence.

Rather than tell Diana, he knew he had to do his own investigation.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve Trevor's dialogue is meant to be weird and unintelligable, it's not shitty dialog on my part though it does seem that way. His dialogue is directly inspired by Lost Keys/Rosetta Stoned by Tool.
> 
> Though the dialog is unintelligble, it is relevant to the story. I'm sure people familiar with the broader DC Universe/Multiverse can pick up a few mentions in his rant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains much of the reason this is rated M. Violence, blood, and some self-harmish behavior towards the end.

Two men in very bland black suits walked side-by-side through the automatic doors of St. Christopher’s reception area, ignoring the wary glances of other visitors. One visitor, a young man, nudged his dad and joked, “Who invited the Men-in-Black?” His father huffed in agreement at the rigid militaristically odd way the two men -- one with dark skin and close cut-hair, the other lighter-skinned with longer combed back black hair-- approached the nurse at reception.

“Can I help you?” the nurse asked warily.

“We’re here to see a patient of yours, Stephen Trevor,” one of the men replied.

“O-oh I’m sorry, he can’t see any visitors anymore unless they’re a relation. You can talk to the doctor--”

“No,” one of the pair held up a badge, and the nurse’s eyes widened at what the badge symbolized. Two men from the United States Pentagon itself. “We’re seeing him now.”

Stephen Trevor had been in a haze of sleep for most of the day, put under some pain medication after a few more examinations. In the fog of his rapidly moving uncontrolled consciousness, he heard footsteps, distant, yet loud.

The steps, whatever they were, were approaching, nearer and nearer.

His body wanted rest. Rest that his mind would not let him succumb to. The colors on the walls shifted constantly and he felt the shiver of anxiousness through his bones at all times. He might have been sleeping, but lately it was hard to tell if he was in a dream or reality.

He at first didn’t hear the door to his room open, but _something_ told him something was there. He opened his eyes, just a little, seeing two black figures, eyes fiery, one monster pulling out a long needle.

One of the men monitored the hallway through the window of the door, watching as nurses and doctors passed by without a second glance. The other man, the light skinned one, pulled out a syringe, letting some of the fluid spill out of the end. He then turned the thin, tiny needle towards the skin near the inside of Steve’s arm.

He was momentarily distracted as the beeping from Steve’s heart-rate monitored sped up in an instant, and Steve jerked alive, swinging at the black-suited man, knocking his jaw.

The man dropped the syringe on the floor, and Steve took that time to wrench himself out of bed, pulling the IV tube from its stand, and the wires from the monitor.

Stephen Trevor, even with plenty of drugs in his system to help with pain and rest, was still a strong man, muscularly built from years in the military, so he could endure the ensuing tackle from the man who had tried to inject him. After several moments of grappling, and a few punches exchanged, Steve quickly found himself outmanned as the darker skinned man moved away from his patrol to assist his friend.

A quick elbow to the dark-skinned man’s face threw him off enough for Steve to take hold of his partner and hip-throw him into the heat-register by the window. For extra measure, Steve immediately stomped on his knee, breaking it cleanly, the man giving out an anguished cry.

The other man recovered from the jab to the face and lunged at Steve, prepared to give a knock-out punch. Steve ducked under the man’s swing, and he grabbed his shoulder and head, using as much force as he could to smash the man’s head into the stainless steel counter, blood spilling all over the sterile cotton swabs.

Steve could hear noises, like a siren or a blare horn, and a distinct tug that told him ‘Get out!’. Still in his hospital gown, he raced down the blindingly bright halls of the hospital to the stunned and horrified gazes of the hospital staff and visitors, his IV tube still hanging off his arm, and wires from the adhesive pads on his chest trailing behind him.

Some of the male nurses made to go after him and immediately Steve located the emergency staircase. He outran the staff and security, their footsteps heavy behind him as he pushed his legs blindly as far as they could until he reached whatever the top of this building was.

Cool night air hit for the first time in days. And just as it was then it was even more disorienting, the lights in the night sky looking like planets of blue, red, white, and green. He ran to the edge of the roof, locating a fire escape.

A couple of the male nurses and the hospital security team breached the roof exit, spotting Steve leaping over the side of the building and onto the metal fire escape. By the time the team reached the edge of the building, he was already on the damp quiet street, disappearing into the dark, cold night.

Steve ran as fast as his legs could carry him, paying no mind to the wet, chilly air, especially with only a sheer hospital gown to protect him. In his head, the distant sirens of the usual Gotham police on patrol were for him. He had to run away. He had to find…

His thoughts crept back into his mind and he saw violent color in his head once again. A vision. A structure framed in a familiar light. And it wasn’t far. Something told him it wasn’t far. And he would run until he found it.

* * *

The phone on Renee Montoya’s nightstand buzzed just as she was about to tuck into bed after her shift ended at 3 a.m. Being on the force for a decade, she was used to getting calls right as she was falling asleep, and she was long past being frustrated about it.

“Montoya here.”

“Detective,” the distressed voice of Commissioner Gordon came over the other line. “We need you over at St. Christopher’s. Now. Something came up with your suicide subject. Ran on a tear through the facility.”

“What?"

“We already put out an alert to the patrol. Shouldn’t be hard to find a maniac running around the streets of Gotham. Well, one with his bare ass in the wind anyway. But you might have to be the person the hospital talks to.”

Montoya mentally agreed and as soon as she hung up the phone, she put her day clothes back on and left for the hospital.

* * *

St. Christopher's looked to be in chaos when she arrived. And she spotted a few patrol cars already there. Immediately she realized she didn’t get the exact scope of the problem from her conversation with the Commissioner. Before she could even talk to the first staff member available she noticed a few nurses busy down the very wing she went down to visit with an incoherent Steve Trevor. Eventually, when the nurse staff themselves calmed down a bit, Montoya was able to get a few comments over what happened. From what was described, Stephen Trevor had a massive freak out when the two military goons came by to see him. He took those two men out. No other staff was hurt, but some equipment was damaged and it left a confused and concerned nightly hospital staff.

“Excuse me,” Montoya heard a voice call behind her. She turned and her eyes had to travel down. Before her was a man in a grey and tweed suit, thick swept back hair as jet black as the goatee on his rugged face. Noticeably though, the man before her was very short, barely reaching to her shoulders and Montoya was not a tall woman herself.

“You are the detective?” the man inquired in a deep voice.

“I am.”

“Dr. Edgar Cizko,” the man’s smooth voice uttered as he outstretched his hand. “Mr. Trevor has been my patient since he’s been with the Pentagon. I’m ashamed that all of this chaos has happened under my watch.”

“ _Your_ patient?” Montoya reiterated, almost in disbelief. But then her detective curiosity got the best of her and she pressed this doctor. “Mr. Trevor was found to have attempted suicide several days ago. It's why he's been here in the first place. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

The small man shook his head. “No unfortunately. And as his doctor that of course concerns me. However, it is unsurprising, as you might have deduced from his erratic display today. I have been charged to oversee the mental wellbeing of a few of the staff who have displayed such...distressing behavior. Mr. Trevor, I had thought, was getting better.”

Montoya turned her head back toward the wing where Stephen Trevor escaped from. A few male nurses were helping the injured men in suits onto gurneys to be taken to be patched up.

“And those X-Files-looking guys?”

Doctor Cizko’s dark eyes flitted towards the two officers as the corners of his lips upturned humorously at her quip. “They were with me. Agents. When I had found that he was here, I immediately asked them to look into Mr. Trevor for me, before I arrived. And to notify him that I was coming.”

“Well it looks like your friends freaked him out. Do you know where he would go?”

“I can’t think of any place in Gotham,” Dr. Cizko shrugged in his suit, before pulling out a small card from the inside of his suit. "My contact. I have to speak to a few people about my two friends down there. I understand you have patrol on the look out for Mr. Trevor. If you do ever find him, please alert me."

Montoya could only give a nod to the man.

On the way back to her car, she issued a range of non-stop curses and swears, both in her head and out loud. She knew Dr. Cizko was lying. Or at least the two suited men were. She had spoken with the nurse at the reception and she was quite clear on what the mannerisms of the two men were. Hardly the behavior of concerned caretakers. Something was off, but the goddamn Pentagon was involved, which meant Montoya would likely be hand-strapped out of looking any further into this.

“I don’t normally say ‘screw government authority’, but _screw government authority_ ,” the Detective practically spat out loud, her frustration ebbing now that she knew her instincts on this case weren’t far off.

* * *

In his own investigation, Batman had put together what seemed to be a Rubik’s cube of Steve Trevor’s life. Every detail was seemingly more interesting than the last, but nothing that could conclusively answer any questions he might have had, and many more questions seemed to arise. A kid from Oklahoma, Steve came from a family who had served the United States in one form or another for generations. This led to discovery of Stephen Rockwell Trevor’s mother, a single mother herself, but had been one of the first women to pilot test crafts for the United States military in the 80s and given several Air Force honors for the efforts. Even bone chilling was the woman’s name.

Diana Trevor.

The woman was not the Diana he knew. Her pictures depicted a bubbly woman with bouncing blond curls, pretty for a normal human woman, but hardly the gorgeous goddess that was Diana Prince. And Steve Trevor himself...well the Steve he was looking into, didn’t quite look like the ghostly image Bruce saw in Diana’s Veld photograph. And the details he discovered, proved that they weren’t one and the same.

But all this...Batman’s intuition told him it was not a coincidence. And more than once since the discovery of the details, he had debated to just phone Diana and bluntly ask the questions.

And yet, Bruce painfully knew first hand that Diana was protective of the subject of Steve Trevor. She would...in a word, kill him if she found out she was snooping into her dead boyfriend or anything that could possibly be related to him.

“Coffee Master Bruce,” Batman’s loyal butler, Alfred, had appeared in the darkness of the Batcave while Bruce was doing his research.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said distantly as he took the cup.

“I have never seen a lower level Pentagon personnel have so much missing and redacted information,” Bruce continued as soon as he noticed Alfred taking a peek at what he was looking into. Specifically at the wide array of black bars that seemed to accompany any and all documents related to one Stephen Rockwell Trevor.

“You were with the British Secret Service right?” Bruce asked without offering his butler so much as a sideways glance. If he did, he would see Alfred’s lips thin into an uncharacteristically rigid line.

“Does the military really like to button up so much information on their pawns?” Alfred’s charge continued to question. Bruce’s ice-blue eyes finally met his as he turned his head. “Did they lock up this many secrets about you?”

Alfred cleared the sudden dryness from his throat. “Master Bruce, if you’re asking if I saw the military cover up strange and unusual and cruel things they did to their own soldiers in my time there, then the answer would be ‘Yes’.”

Bruce didn’t have time to unpack what Alfred meant when one of his own private security alarms went off. Immediately on the large monitor, the security camera facing the twig and vine covered iron gates that led to the causeway up to Wayne Manor. Alfred and Bruce both squinted at the grainy blown-up footage of what was sounding the alarms in the dark.

It was certainly a strange sight for the both of them. And they could only look on in passive bewilderment as a man in nothing but a slightly blood-stained hospital gown began screaming through the bars of the Wayne Manor gates.

“I know she’s been here! Open the gates! Please open the gates!” the man kept yelling, as if he knew Bruce and Alfred were watching. He then smashed his head against the solid iron bars a few times.

“For godssakes! I know she’s in there! I know you’re all in there!”

He repeated the motion with this head, until his forehead split open and blood began to pour down his face. He then screamed something almost unintelligible, but for a chilling moment Bruce thought it was a long and drawn out and anguished “Wayne!”

The man then stilled in the grainy footage. The starkness of the hospital gown in the night footage began to darken as blood began to gather on the fabric. Then, after several moments of anxious silence, Bruce and Alfred watched as the man stalked away from the gates into the darkness of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't update as fast as the other chapters, but this one's a big one and filled with action to hold the readers over. I should point out that Wonder Woman will appear in this story (duh), but not for maybe another chapter or so. Kinda shocked me too that this would lead me into a Justice League mystery to start this tale. But she'll come around.


End file.
